


Preoccupied

by CakeFlavoredFinch, copernicusjones



Series: Once Upon a Time in my Nazi-Occupied Single Brain Cell [2]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: (But they're both here for it lol), A few kinks but nothing gone into detail, Antagonism, Bisexual Male Character, Collaboration, Derogatory Language, Door Sex, Established Relationship, Gay Male Character, Insults, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Nazi Germany, POV Alternating, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, This is Hans we're talking about it ain't gonna be vanilla, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26472451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CakeFlavoredFinch/pseuds/CakeFlavoredFinch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: Standartenführer Landa might outrank him, but it's laughable to think anyone other than Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom is in complete control of the arrangement they entered into many years ago.Upon reuniting in Paris, however, it becomes increasingly clear that Landa disagrees with this notion—and is willing to do whatever it takes to prove his point...
Relationships: Dieter Hellstrom/Hans Landa
Series: Once Upon a Time in my Nazi-Occupied Single Brain Cell [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164398
Kudos: 30





	1. Three Important Men

They were late.

He, conversely, was never late and almost insulted; they had deemed him unimportant enough to simply meander, without any consideration of his own time.

Dieter had been informed that three very important men were on their way and that he would be responsible for two of them as a bodyguard, or escort of sorts. He—and all of Nazi Germany—knew of the first two men. Reichsminister Joseph Goebbels was the right-hand man of the Führer himself, while a young _Schütze_ named Fredrick Zoller had been labeled a ‘hero’ by many.

But not to Dieter. It was the third man who was more of a hero than Zoller would ever be: the legendary “Jew Hunter”, and Dieter's superior, Standartenführer Hans Landa, a highly respected officer among the entirety of the Gestapo and SS.

Dieter would be lying if he said he wasn’t honored to finally be working with the acclaimed _Standartenführer_ again. _And who else but me to deserve such an honor?_ His chest puffed slightly at the notion.

As Dieter checked his watch again, the growl of a Mercedes crept through the nearby alley. Blaring white lights appeared, staring down harshly at him. 

At last, the famous trio had arrived.

From the sleek black Mercedes, the men, along with one woman, piled out of the vehicle one by one. The small congregation of Germans were conversing gleefully, and Dieter breathed in the crisp air as he neared them, his boot heels clicking against the concrete. While he understood the importance of an excellent first impression on the Reichsminister, Dieter found himself more interested in speaking to Standartenführer Landa.

Dieter stood at attention and offered a suave smile to Goebbels when the Reichsminister’s dominating gaze met his.

“Ah, Sturmbannführer Hellstrom. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you!” Goebbels outstretched his hand, which Dieter swiftly took with his own, and they politely shook. Dieter was surprised, but also flattered that a man of Goebbels’s status knew who he was.

“The pleasure is _mine_ , Doktor.”

Hands still locked, Goebbels aggressively pulled Dieter towards him, using the empty one to give Dieter’s shoulder a hefty pat. “ _Unsinn_ my boy! I have heard of your deeds and what you have done for the Reich. I insist: the pleasure is mine!” Goebbels grinned widely as he spoke, finally releasing Dieter from his grasp.

“ _Danke_ , Doktor,” Dieter stated in his usual flat tone. Though he knew Goebbels was indeed being dramatic, he felt quite pleased with himself. Pride lit up Dieter’s face as Goebbels led his translator—and mistress—Francesca Mondino towards the golden gates of the grand ivory-colored hotel towering behind the company. Though he’d been standing in front of its gates for a good while now, Dieter hadn’t even bothered taking in the building’s appearance.

With Goebbels gone, it was time to speak to Landa, who was chatting with young Zoller. They seemed engrossed in conversation and Dieter felt irritation run up his spine. The way Landa addressed the _schütze_ by his name and not his rank immediately stood out as strange, if not suspicious, to Dieter. He silently questioned what, precisely, the boy had done to earn Landa’s respect so quickly, but he kept his mouth shut.

It felt like they were ignoring him, which made Dieter uneasy. 

Before he could think any harder on the matter, Landa turned his head to Dieter and abruptly introduced the _hchütze_. “Sturmbannführer Hellstrom, a pleasure as always! I do not believe you’ve met our esteemed Fredrick yet.”

Dieter raised his brows and smiled at Zoller as a knot formed in his stomach. Landa had addressed him by rank and the boy by name, a contrast that irked Dieter to the core. Perhaps he was overthinking it, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but notice Zoller was around the same age Dieter had been when he’d met Landa. To Dieter, it was simply preposterous: a mere _soldat_ garnering the same respect that he, a _Sturmbannführer_ who had worked for his position, did.

“I was discussing our famous hero’s future as an actor. Perhaps a film about the SS is in order. I’m sure this handsome devil could play me; he certainly has the looks!”

Steely-eyed, Dieter looked the boy up and down, head to toe. He was certainly Landa’s type, which infuriated Dieter even further, his face straining in a pursuit to hide his anger. But as usual, he knew his attempts were in vain; that Landa could see what was hidden behind the calm facade. Landa smiled wickedly, disguising it with a hearty chuckle.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hellstrom,” Zoller said, breaking the silence between them.

At that point, Dieter’s rage boiled over. “That would be Sturmbannführer to you, Soldat,” he hissed. The boy had let the celebrity status go to his head, forgetting his place as a _schütze_.

Zoller flinched, awkwardly correcting himself. “ _Es tut mir leid,_ Sturmbannführer, I meant no disrespect.”

_Tch, calm and collected war hero, indeed._

“I do not care what you ‘meant’, Soldat. Your status as a famous figure is void to rank. Am I clear?”

Zoller swallowed and nodded. “ _Ja_ , Sturmbannführer.”

“Good.” Dieter smiled sarcastically at the boy, about ready to slap him across the face. “Run along with the Reichsminister now. I’m sure he’s waiting for you inside. You’re dismissed.” 

Zoller had gotten the message. With a stiff smile, he bid the two men goodbye in proper military fashion before turning and following Goebbels, who had disappeared into the building.

Landa cleared his throat from behind Dieter, his tone playful and implying a smirk as he leaned forwards. “Desperate to get me alone, are you?”

* * *

The hotel’s interior was even more opulent than the outside, lavishly decorated with silky red velvet and an abundance of twinkling gold. It was a lovely place, and undoubtedly expensive, but to Dieter, it reeked of snobbery. The band of Germans had sat themselves down at a comfortable table just a few meters away from the hotel’s bar.

“Isn’t it wonderful here?” Zoller asked excitedly over a glass of whiskey, gesturing to the room they were seated in.

The company agreed and lazily chatted about topics Dieter couldn't care less about. Sitting quietly between Landa and Francesca, he slowly drew from his cigarette and exhaled calmly.

Landa's words echoed in his head.

_Desperate to get me alone, are you?_

Of course he wasn’t, he told himself. Just because they occasionally slept together meant nothing. Other than the first time, which had been years ago and nothing but a tactic to gain Landa’s approval, the _Standartenführer_ had always been the one seeking Dieter out for sex. 

While he found Landa physically attractive and respected his work greatly, Dieter was not interested in him. Their relationship was strictly business, just like the many other men Dieter exchanged favors for.

It wasn’t long before Zoller’s insufferable voice impeded on his thoughts.

The boy was speaking animatedly of his family back in Munich. “My sisters will be thrilled to hear the premiere will be held at the Ritz. They’ve always dreamed of attending a screening there!”

“Remind me, Fredrick: how many sisters do you have, again?” Landa gave him a curious smile.

“Six, Standartenführer. All older.”

“Six sisters? Well, isn’t that lovely!” Landa said with a jovial grin, before leaning in as if he was going to tell Zoller a great secret. “Perhaps you could put in a good word with one of them for our sturmbannführer friend?”

The men laughed as Dieter felt their eyes rest on him. The topic of women always irritated him, and Landa knew this, taking any chance he could to insert a veiled quip about Dieter’s sexual deviancy. He forced a smile, biting on his bottom lip and giving a false chuckle to hide his growing displeasure.

“Alternatively, you could put in a good word to your mother for the esteemed standartenführer,” Dieter said, laced with sarcasm.

Immediately, the pathetic _schütze_ ’s eyes filled with sorrow. He fidgeted uncomfortably and avoided meeting Dieter’s gaze as a heavy silence filled the table.  
  
The sole noise was so quiet that only Dieter could hear: Francesca beside him, laughing lightly behind her drink.

Goebbels forcefully cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Dieter had forgotten he was there in the first place, and when he looked away from Zoller and to the Reichsminister, he was met with a foul glare.

Landa was the first to speak. “Doktor Goebbels, I can assure you I will speak to Sturmbannführer Hellstrom later about his social decorum. My apologies, on both of our behalfs.” He turned to Schütze Zoller and rested a hand on his shoulder. “My condolences, Fredrick; I’m sure your mother is watching you proudly from the heavens.”

Dieter flushed, realizing what he’d said. Of course Landa, of all people, would goad him into humiliating himself in front of the Reichsminister. At once, the focus of his rage had shifted; he might have been annoyed by Zoller, but he was _furious_ with Landa.

* * *

At long last, after what felt like hours of chatting, the group began saying their goodnights and going their separate ways. Dieter started to wonder if he had even been required to attend. Playing bodyguard was never his preferred assignment, and the infuriating _Standartenführer_ was not making his position any more enjoyable. What was originally simple guard duty had turned into Dieter being treated like a lowly _Schütze_ himself. 

“It has truly been an honor, gentlemen,” Landa said with a friendly grin as Zoller stood from his cushy red leather seat. Remaining seated, he politely extended his arm and gave the boy a rough pat on the back.

Dieter rolled his eyes. This did not go unnoticed by Landa. After a nearly imperceptible glimpse at Dieter, he told Zoller, “I do hope to see you again, Fredrick. You are truly a delightful fellow!” 

Zoller’s response was, predictably, a stupid smile. “ _Danke_ , Hans— _Standartenführer Landa_ ,” he corrected himself mid-sentence, giving Dieter an insolent glare out of the corner of his eye before turning to leave. 

Dieter was dangerously close to giving the smug little _Schütze_ a solid blow to the jaw. It was good that he’d left.

As he went to stand, a warm hand settled onto his shoulder. Turning his head, he recognized the hand as Landa’s. 

While they waited for the Goebbels and Zoller to disappear, their gazes met. Without breaking eye contact, Landa smiled amiably and removed his hand from Dieter’s tense shoulder.

“Well, now that we’re alone—”

“You plan on reprimanding me?” 

“ _Nein_ , not right now, Sturmbannführer.” Landa paused before continuing, with exaggerated quizzical expression, “I was curious as to what you have to report?”

When met with confused silence from Dieter, he barely hid a sly smirk by feigning perplexity. “That is why you wanted a private moment with me, is it not?”  
  
Dieter knew Landa wasn't expecting honesty—that he assumed whatever answer Dieter might give was only masking deeply-buried jealousy. Landa's confidence in this assumption was evident in his smile, in the way he gestured with his hands.

“Well, you haven’t been stationed in France for as long as I have,” said Landa, “so I assume I can trust you to keep me up to date on what is happening in the _Vaterland_?” 

Dieter responded with a nod, narrowing his eyes. He sensed something was up, but he could never be too sure with Landa.

Landa continued, “After all, I’m much more inclined to believe a _Sturmbannführer_ of your reputation as far more trustworthy than any overzealous low-ranking officer. You know first-hand how prone to error they are.”

He couldn’t help but think Landa was referring to the errors he had made when he was a younger officer. Errors that had been easily expunged by bending the then _-Obersturmbannführer_ over a desk for an hour.

Dieter paused, thinking. Finally, he replied, “You are correct, Standartenführer.” He reached into his jacket, going for another cigarette. “I assume we can skip over Munich, seeing as Schütze Zoller has already told us so much. At least we know his sisters are safe and sound.”

A sharp smile ended his sentence. Landa’s eyes followed his hand’s precise movements as he lit up a fag.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you, Dieter?” Landa said suddenly, that wicked smirk crossing his face.  
  
Dieter scowled. “And why do you think that?” he asked, barely managing to suppress what had stirred within him throughout the night

Landa chuckled, and Dieter could feel bitter anger creeping up his neck, his face.

“Well, you have reason to be. After all, has he not earned his place in society?"

”What are you insinuating?”

The two men stared silently at each other, Landa’s humorous smile fading into a stone-cold frown. “We both know how you’ve come to your current position, do we not?”

Internally, Dieter was fuming. But his words came out in his usual even tone. His focus moved to the distance as if Landa’s accusations bored him. “I fail to see your point.”

Landa leaned against the table, resting his arms. Dieter didn’t need to see Landa to feel his piercing gaze as he pushed forward and whispered, “Then I’ll make it plain: you’ve whored your way from a simple nobody to a big, bad, scary, wolf of a _Sturmbannführer_. Zoller, on the other hand, risked his very life for our nation.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“I can’t help but think your obvious distaste of the _Schütze_ was birthed from the fact that he has earned his status legitimately, while you…” he paused again; scoffed. “You know exactly what you’ve done.”

“He’s nothing special,” Dieter said through a clenched jaw, eyes meeting Landa’s.

“Oh well…” Landa trailed off, his smile benign and making him seem agreeable for once this _verdammte_ evening. “Neither were you.”


	2. Feeling Adventurous

Hans was enjoying incurring Hellstrom’s wrath and did not attempt to hide it. If poor Hellstrom wanted to think he was the dominant party of their relationship, so be it. Hans knew the truth and could see the acidic envy simmering within him, but that wasn’t all. He also knew lust when he saw it, and he’d never seen it burning as fiercely as it was in Hellstrom.

As the two departed from the luxurious warmth of the hotel and plunged back into the brisk streets of Paris, Hans could hear Hellstrom’s breathing getting louder and more irregular, along with the heavy and irritated clacks of his boots on the concrete. Was he chilly, or had Hans simply pissed him off? Perhaps more was happening under that frightening charcoal uniform? 

His thoughts drifted only for a moment before he felt Hellstrom’s freezing gaze like a proverbial bullet to the back of his head.

“Is something the matter, Dieter?” Slowly, he turned, raising one brow dramatically. 

“Nothing. I just couldn’t help but realize the Reichsminister’s car is no longer here…” He cocked his head curiously, having managed to shake his earlier frustration. With a humorless laugh, he went on, “What were you saying about me being ‘desperate’ to get you alone? All of that tough talk, only for you to practically beg for me?”

Despite Hellstrom’s attempt at provocation, Hans graced him with an innocent smile. “What makes you think I haven’t simply arranged a cab to come for me?” he asked matter-of-factly. 

Hellstrom didn’t flinch, making it crystal clear he was tired of Hans’s scheming. Having since exited the glimmering gates of the hotel’s property, they found themselves facing each other in front of a darkened street. Even in the night, Hans could see Hellstrom slowly licking his lips, wetting them. Hans opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, Hellstrom had him pinned up against the fence, a tight grip on either of Hans’s arms.

“I grow tired of your _fucking_ games, Hans,” Hellstrom hissed. Their bodies collided and warmth enveloped Hans, Hellstrom pressed firmly to him. 

Staring into Hellstrom’s eyes, Hans let out a rich laugh. Hellstrom was grasping his biceps with enough force to bruise. “Oh my, it’s been some time since I heard you call me that…” His voice took on a seductive note. “Normally, I’d take it that you're interested in another promotion...”

Hans squirmed, managing to free his right hand and rest it gently on Hellstrom’s face. His gloved fingers ran over the alabaster jawline for a second before Hellstrom jolted his head away from the reaching fingers. 

“But something tells me that isn’t what this is about, is it, my dear Dieter?” He caressed Hellstrom’s cheek once more, and had his wrist snatched and pinned back down in response. Hans switched to a biting jeer. “And if that’s the case, you know you could simply find yourself a pretty little French whore for the night, don’t you?” 

There it was; the lazy smirk Hans knew all too well. “Why pay for a French whore when I can have an Austrian one for free?”

At this, Hans grunted and pushed his body back against Hellstrom’s, no longer able to hide the arousal he’d been concealing ever since the _sturmbannführer_ started insulting him in the hotel. A shudder ran through him at the friction of their stiff groins pressed together, ending with an involuntary gasp.

Hellstrom grasped Hans's arms tighter, lifting him against the fence. He growled, “Is that what you want? You want me to call you a whore?”

Hans was surprised by Hellstrom’s strength, though his demeanor remained calm. Through labored breaths, he replied with a smug grin, “As long as you fuck me like one." 

* * *

In the back seat of his Mercedes-Benz, Hans was already beginning to tease his _sturmbannführer_ , running his hand softly along the inside of Hellstrom’s clothed thigh—barely brushing against the tent formed in his slacks. 

Before Hans could go any further, Hellstrom threw his wrist off and glared at him, “ _Mein Gott_ , you can’t even wait until we get there?” 

“Oh, come now, Dieter, if you don’t want me coming onto you, maybe don’t say all those things that you know entice me.” He snickered. “And if my eyes don’t deceive me, I’m inclined to believe you’re enjoying this as much as I am.” 

Hellstrom scoffed, but despite his protest, allowed Hans to continue. 

A strangled noise, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, escaped Hellstrom’s mouth as Hans began to roughly grope him. Lust was flooding Hans’s body, heat rushing to his face and desire to his groin as he carefully stroked the stiff lump in Hellstrom’s trousers. “So hard already; are you sure I’m the one who can’t wait?” He deftly undid the belt next. “I’m tempted to call you indecent, for subjecting my driver to this…” 

“Then call me indecent,” Hellstrom responded bluntly. His body tensed as Hans gently freed the erection.  
  
Hans could feel his pants tightening at the sight of it. Disgust swirled within him, that he could hunger as badly for another person as he did for Hellstrom, and he tried to cover it with a smirk. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this, hasn’t it, Dieter?” 

“Shut up and do something useful with your mouth,” snarled Hellstrom. His fingers nimbly parted Hans’s hair and gave a hard yank. Hans gasped as he was pulled down, and before he could even think about speaking, another strong tug forced him to kneel on the floor of the backseat, tucked neatly between Hellstrom's open legs. The quarters were cramped, but that wasn't why his breathing had grown ragged and desperate. He tipped his head down at the same time Hellstrom pressed his hips up, and the feverishly warm tip of Hellstrom’s prick brushed against Hans's closed mouth, leaving a few drops of liquid on his lower lip. 

Hans's entire body ached with need, his suave facade quickly disappearing before Hellstrom. He happily parted his lips, using them to caress the soft head tentatively, almost modest, like he'd never done this before. He knew how much Hellstrom hated to be teased, which only stoked his arousal further; the more he agitated Hellstrom, the more aggression would be taken out on him once they reached their destination.  
  
Hellstrom's fingers clenched tighter in Hans's hair. He didn't seem to know what he wanted; here he was trying to jam his cock further down Hans's mouth but was also spitting out a litany of curses, chastising Hans for taunting him like this.  
  
Oh, Hans had _missed_ this and made up for the lost time by adding his tongue; flat, deliberate swipes punctuated by a muffled moan that was only partially an act. It was music to his ears—Hellstrom, articulate when he wanted to be, reduced to an impatient, swearing mess. It'd become so predictable—Hans had figured out years ago which buttons of Hellstrom's to push, and just the right amount of pressure to exert, but it was somehow new and exciting, even now. Hans had grown so used to everyone submitting to him that he relished every time Hellstrom dared to challenge him, pushing back and compelling Hans to do the same until they were both completely spent from it. He remembered the first time they fucked, nearly ten years ago, as if it were yesterday; the memory itself excited him beyond words.

* * *

_“Do you understand why you’re here, Obersturmführer Hellstrom?” Hans asked, filling the vacuum of silence that had settled upon his dimly-lit office._ _  
_ _  
_ _Hellstrom nodded, and his expression remained neutral—almost bored. The moon's glow through the nearby window illuminated the cuts and bruises marking his otherwise handsome face. “Ja, Obersturmbannführer.”_

 _Hans smiled in response. He had heard plenty of rumors from several other high-ranking SS officers about the young man sitting in front of him. How he was power-hungry and willing to perform whatever a senior officer might want from him in exchange for favors and promotions. “Whatever” usually translated to getting on his knees or even taking it up the ass. Hans could see how one such as Hellstrom could succeed this way; his frame and facial features were deceivingly boyish, almost feminine._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I’m aware of who you are, Obersturmführer,” he said, patting the closed folder on his desk with the name 'DIETER HELLSTROM' typed upon it in a large, blocky font. “But I’m inclined to know if you are aware of who I am?”_

_As he gestured to himself, he spied a lazy smile crawling across Hellstrom’s face. Hans hated to admit it, but the Obersturmführer was quite alluring. He couldn’t help staring at those icy eyes or letting his gaze trace over that delicate skin as he might with a gloved finger._

_“Everyone in the SS knows who you are, Obersturmbannführer Hans Landa.” Hellstrom accentuated each syllable of Hans’s name._

_Hans almost gasped, cutting it short with a smile. Hearing his name fall off those lips… it'd been ages since he'd experienced such an intense attraction, and so quickly, irrespective of it being towards a woman or man._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Well, you aren’t stupid.” Hans paused thoughtfully before continuing, “Then, please do tell how you ended up in such a kerfuffle with that soldat—he’s in the hospital now, you know.”_

_“It’s what he deserved.”_

_“And what did he_ do _to deserve it?”_

 _He watched intently as Hellstrom leaned back in the creaky chair, a sly smirk returning to his face as he pulled out a package of cigarettes from his jacket. “Simply put, there is some gossip…” He scrupulously brought a cigarette to his soft, red lips. “…surrounding me, and how I’ve achieved my rank and status in the SS…” Slowly, gracefully, he lit the cigarette._ _“…at such a young age.” Hellstrom took a drag of his cigarette, at last making eye contact with Hans’s now wanton expression._

_Hans swallowed, suddenly and acutely aware of the game Hellstrom was playing. Surely Hans was being tested and had failed (or passed, depending on where this was going) the first test by getting caught stupidly gazing at the other man’s undeniably attractive features._

_So be it, Hans thought. He'd play Hellstrom's game—and he would win._

_“Oh? And what are the details of this gossip—the details that make getting into fights with other officers justified?” He raised his brows dramatically, feigning ignorance for the time being._

_Hellstrom breathed out a puff of smoke, replying as flatly as ever, “Petty rumors.” His stare was penetrating, boring into Hans. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Our friend in the infirmary said everyone knew them.”_

_A pause. Hellstrom's stare didn't leave Hans, who was hyper-focused on the hand holding the cigarette. Did Hellstrom know he was faking? How? Was he bluffing? Hans licked his lips before leaning onto his desk, towards Hellstrom. “Are they true, then?” he whispered in a husky voice as if there was someone else in the room who might hear him._

_Hellstrom chuckled, sat up, and leaned towards Hans. “So you_ have _heard them.”_

_Hans simply stared back at Hellstrom, giving him the answer he needed._

_Hellstrom took another drag, a smug smile surrounding it. “Something tells me it doesn’t matter to you whether those rumors are true or false.”_

_Returning the smirk with his own, Hans knocked on his desk. “Well, I understand you feel the need to defend your name, but that doesn’t excuse your actions—and I cannot let you go without reprimanding you. Some might see your wounds as enough punishment for now, however, I still think corrective action is needed."_

_Hellstrom remained silent, showing no acknowledgment of Hans's decision._

_"But I'm a fair man." Hans leaned back, pointing to him nonchalantly. “So, Dieter: how do you think you should be allowed to rectify your mistake?”_

_“This desk of yours.” With no hesitation, Hellstrom tapped one finger on the ebony desk before him. "I'll fuck you on it."_

_That confidence. It sent a bolt of desire straight through Hans's stomach, then lower. He couldn’t hide his shock, eyes wide as he mustered a laugh before replying, “Do you realize what you’re suggesting? And to a senior officer, no less?”_

_“Well, Obersturmbannführer, I hate to inform you, but I’m not the only one with such rumors attached to his name.” Exaggerated sorrow crossed Hellstrom’s face as if he had just delivered tragic news._

_"And what makes you think I’ll let this happen? You haven’t even bought me dinner.”_

_Another smirk crept up when Hellstrom didn’t respond._

_Despite the ashtray situated in front of him, Hellstrom dropped the butt of his cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out with his boot. He rose from the chair as if to leave._

_Hans couldn’t contain a wild grin as he followed Hellstrom’s lead. He met Hellstrom’s eyes, which seemed to be peering into his soul itself. Something inside Hans coiled tighter and tighter, until..._ _  
_ _  
_ _It finally unwound. Hans lashed his arm out, sweeping it across his desk. Paperwork and folders fluttered to the floor, along with an inkpot, pens; the ashtray, a picture frame; the telephone, its cord snapping._ _  
_ _  
_ _Hellstrom showed no reaction, save for his gaze flicking from Hans, to the mess on the floor, and back again._ _  
_ _  
_ _Hans smiled innocently and signaled to the now-empty desk._

_“Well?”_

* * *

There wasn't a rigid desk beneath him, digging into his stomach, or the euphoria that came with being held down against that desk while getting thoroughly rammed, but the past caught up with the present. Hellstrom's swearing was as relentless now as it'd been then, fist a constant repetition of loosening, tightening, pushing, tugging as if he didn't trust Hans to meet his expectations without the proper instruction.  
  
Which, honestly, wasn't unwise on his part.  
  
As much as Hans didn't want to stop—he did. This wasn't his goal. Perhaps it was Hellstrom's, but that didn't particularly matter to Hans.  
  
And so he stopped, quite abruptly, just as he sensed Hellstrom was nearing the edge; his vocabulary had dwindled to variations of “fuck”, which is what Hans had learned was the tip-off that he would finish in short order. Hans rose from his knees, settling into the seat next to Hellstrom.  
  
“What the hell—?” Hellstrom's eyes were wild, a predator with its meat snatched away. His hair, always so neat, was disheveled from all the shuffling around he'd done, rogue strands sticking near his brow.  
  
Hans reached out, brushed the strands back.

“We've arrived,” he said by way of explanation. Hellstrom swatted Hans's hand hard, the crack that came with skin-on-glove contact echoing throughout the car. Hans sucked in a breath, though not from the sting— _oh_ , he truly did enjoy when Hellstrom showed just what he was capable of.


	3. Riled Up

Hans didn't particularly like kissing, but he _loved_ getting Hellstrom all riled up, and this was the perfect way to do so. Hellstrom disliked kissing even more; he refused to indulge Hans, would always try to jerk away, push Hans back—and grow incensed when it would never be that simple. Truly, this aversion to kissing puzzled Hans, since he found Hellstrom to be rather good at it. And though one could argue that Hans had, over the past decade, grown used to kissing Hellstrom, he liked to think that he would not have partaken in any aspect of their arrangement, beyond the first time, had it not exceeded his lofty expectations.

“Patience,” he murmured between kisses as if that might suddenly grant Hellstrom the good sense to quit shoving, struggling, as Hans, time after time, snatched and snagged at his wrists, pinned them against the heavy oak door. He used the momentum to continually rock himself against Hellstrom and the bulge in his trousers that Hans insisted he put away.

Hellstrom hadn't exactly been compliant, and Hans had, for a second, thought they might end up screwing in the backseat—it wouldn't have been the first time. So Hans took it upon himself to tuck Hellstrom back into his trousers, button and belt him up, and demand that he join Hans in his home—the opportune moment would present itself shortly, after all.

“Fuck...” A jab caught. “Get... _fucking_... _Hans_...” This time the left fist, met before it hammered Hans in the chest, and locked down to Hellstrom's side.

Hans just chuckled darkly—he knew if Hellstrom really wanted to stop him, he could. But clearly, he was conserving his energy for other activities. His mouth pressed to Hellstrom's just in time to catch another series of curses, and my, was it delicious in its bitterness; surely, the tobacco, but also because, of course, Hellstrom wouldn't taste anything but bitter.

And then, a sharp pain shot through his lip and all Hans could taste was the metallic tang of blood. He swore, shoving apart from Hellstrom, hand going to his mouth and coming away stained.

“You _bit_ me?!” He wasn’t offended—no, definitely not, with how rapidly his heart was beating. He was impressed; how was it that Hellstrom—what was the American saying?—kept him up on his toes like this?

Hellstrom was mostly swallowed by the blackness of the foyer, but a thin smudge of light lining the windows’ edges, courtesy of the porch lamps outside, cast an eerie glow on the right side of his face. He was grinning, a dark smear cutting a stripe through his white teeth and running down his pale chin.

“Really, Dieter, I haven't even taken you to task for your earlier transgression,” Hans tutted, peeling his dirtied gloves off and tossing them to the floor. “Yet here you are...! Continuing your misconduct.”

Hellstrom stayed silent, merely licking at his lips where the blood had sullied them. He didn't bother with the streak on his chin.

Already, Hans's wound was bleeding less, but it throbbed with a dull pain. That, however, was the least of his concerns. This was the first instance all night Hans hadn’t the chance to calculate his next move. He had to just act and, it wasn't as if he didn't know where it would eventually take him. But the unknown of the journey there... how thrilling!

He closed the space between himself and Hellstrom in two purposeful steps. He fingered at Hellstrom's tie, then the top button of his uniform. Loosened it. Then the second. Hellstrom felt taut beneath Hans's touch, like a spring-loaded trap that'd been set. Ready to snap at any moment.

Well. Perhaps Hans should hurry that along—trigger the mechanism, so to speak.

Hans allowed his fingers, for but a few seconds, to rest upon the spot below Hellstrom's throat where his uniform was open. In a slow exacting motion, Hans let those fingers glide up and curl around the back of Hellstrom's neck.

“I gave you an order, Sturmbannführer.” Hans craned up, the scent of copper and cigarettes mingling between them. “Fuck me.”

His mouth pressed to Hellstrom's, sticky and warm. Immediately, he was wrenched off. Thrown against the door with a great shuddering impact. His hands stung from the hard slap of bracing himself, his cheek smarting even more thanks to the groove of the door's design.

Was he being too loud? He didn't think so, but Hellstrom must've, using his free hand to grasp Hans by the hair and knock his head, once, against the door. Hans could only moan again; though his face was turned to the side, his bloodied lip had come in contact with the varnished wood and would likely leave a mark behind. Ah, a small price to pay.

The hand between Hans's legs kept massaging him; this was unlike Hellstrom, to toy with him while amid an encounter, but then again, perhaps it was a measure of retaliation for Hans's antics in the backseat of the Benz.

“My, you're really taking your time, aren't you?” Hans asked, although it couldn't have been more than thirty seconds since Hellstrom had pinned him back like this. He laughed, shaky but pleased as Hellstrom continued to work him roughly. “Why, if I wanted something this leisurely, I could have taken young Zoller to the movies.”

 _There_. Hans's briefs were yanked down, just enough that was necessary. Hellstrom's hand disappeared, immediately followed by the unmistakable _tink!_ of a belt being undone.

Hans went on, “Oh, there's that new von Hammersmark drama, just released a couple of months ago. I never got to see it. She's a delightful bird, did you know? And I don't just mean on-screen—”

His mouth was clamped shut. Hellstrom's hand was responsible, thumb pushing so tight on Hans's cheek he was sure there'd be a bruise to match the ones certain to appear on his arms. Hans was glad Hellstrom couldn't see him, the way his eyes rolled back, although surely Hellstrom could feel the vibration of another moan, the sagging posture his submissive thoughts directed his body into assuming.

“Spit,” Hellstrom commanded coldly.

Hans did, twice; some of the saliva didn't quite make it, leaking out to mix with the flakes of drying blood. But most of it ended up on Hellstrom's palm, and subsequently, his fingers as he removed his hand and rubbed the spit around.

Hans would always moan and whimper when Hellstrom prepared him, and this was no different; he knew he sounded pitiful, helpless, like some simpering _fräulein_ , but it'd been so long, almost a year since they'd seen each other—since they'd last fucked. His sigh was more one of relief, that _finally_ , this was happening again, that his yearning to be with another man was being sated. 

Over the past several years, Hans had sought out the company of women—honestly, he hadn't any idea how many; he'd lost track—but other men? Why bother? _Nein_ , he'd never feed Hellstrom's ego by admitting it, but what was between them had been practiced to something close to perfection—only close, because Hans swore it got better each time.

This evening was proof.

Those probing fingers began to withdraw slowly—for Hellstrom’s standards, anyways. The simple thought of what would happen next engulfed Hans with longing, causing him to arch his back, trying to follow the retreating fingers with his hips as he moaned pathetically. His attempt was fruitless, Hellstrom responding with a grunt and smashing Hans back into the door. The motion tore Hellstrom's fingers out from within Hans, and he wiped them off on Hans’s pristine uniform. 

The tip of Hellstrom’s erection, the one Hans had sucked to readiness, pushed gently against his slicked entrance. A hoarse “ _Fuck—_!” spilled from Hans, the anticipation flowing through him verging towards something uncontrollable. Hellstrom must have felt the shudder that wracked him, molding himself tighter against Hans. Ah, so Hellstrom had a heart after all; what else could it be, but his pulse, that Hans could feel drumming against his back, even though their uniforms?

Hellstrom paused for a split second—long enough for Hans to run his mouth.

“Well? Are you going to fuck me? Or just stand—” 

The words caught in Hans's throat, turning into a trembling moan as Hellstrom thrust his entire length in, vicious and desperate. His body ached, appealed for more, as it adjusted to the sudden, and rather large, intrusion. His hands fell to the only thing they could grab hold of: the heavy doorknob. After a quiet “ _Scheisse—_ ” from Hellstrom tickled past Hans's ear, he found his mouth firmly recaptured, which was probably for the best. The next thrusts were even more brutal, increasing in speed, and all of the groans and pleas they elicited from Hans were crushed into the vise-like grip.

He wanted so badly to touch himself, bring himself to completion—he knew Hellstrom wouldn't—but his arms were quivering from how tight his hold on the doorknob was, and there wasn't enough space to move, even if he'd wanted to.

 _Gott_ , maybe he didn't need to be coaxed along any further. Just being fucked this mercilessly was beyond maddening. Hans’s thoughts were a storm of all their past trysts: being slammed against walls, bent over a desk or sofa or whatever the closest piece of furniture was; never shutting up despite Hellstrom's demands, and then being forced to by having his face pushed into a pillow or cushion, or his mouth covered, just like this. Hans was sure this drove Hellstrom crazy, feeling the moans trapped against his palm, because he'd always pick up the pace, as if Hans were asking, _begging_ for it.

Oh, but he _was_.

Hans's head pitched forward with each thrust, bringing Hellstrom's hand with it and rapping his knuckles against the door. Certainly, he wouldn't come out of this unscathed, either, but he didn't seem to care. If this were their first time fucking, then Hans might have taken the hot, panting stream of curses and grunts pelting the back of his neck as an expression of pain. But Hellstrom's words were indicative of the furthest thing from pain, Hans knew that much.

A deluge of indistinct forms of “ _Fuck_ ” filled Hans’s eardrums, sending ecstasy crashing through him. Being ferociously and unforgivingly fucked by Hellstrom, hearing and feeling him reach completion, all because of Hans's expertly executed provocations, was truly a treat that Hans would never grow tired of, no matter how many times he’d practiced it. 

And this time, of course, was no different. 

“Finished so soon, Dieter?” Hans chided gruffly, the unyielding grip on his jaw finally releasing. He heard a wet _squelch_ as he was met with another aggressive thrust, vengeance for his words, sending viscous fluid dripping down his legs and slamming his face against the door once more. He knew Hellstrom _despised_ any mention of his tendency to finish first, regardless of how true it was—and even if it was technically Hans’s fault. 

Hans couldn't help it—he laughed, something choked but absolutely genuine. Drained as his body was, this had all been positively uplifting to his spirits.

After being rewarded one final shove, what Hans felt next was almost simultaneous: the absence of Hellstrom inside him, as he pulled out, and a weight—sweaty, oily, and expelling coarse, uneven breaths—dropping against his head. An arm circled his middle; Hellstrom, using Hans as an anchor to prevent himself from slumping to the floor, as he attempted to regulate his breathing.

For all the exhilaration Hans had been gifted with when both verbally and physically sparring with Hellstrom, _this_ he did not like. It was almost... _sweet_ , that Hellstrom would lean on him like this. In other words, terribly distasteful.

Besides, they weren't done here. Or, he wasn't. Which meant Hellstrom didn't have much choice in the matter.

Again, he laughed lightly, but the elbow he sent back at Hellstrom was anything but. “It's not going to take care of itself, you know!”

In the fleeting seconds during which Hans would have expected a savage retort or to be struck again—perhaps even bitten—he was instead spun around, and then Hellstrom was no longer in his sightline. He'd dropped to his knees and, with no pretense, taken Hans in his mouth and started sucking with the utmost urgency.

Hans gasped, as if he'd just been punched, had all the wind knocked out of him. He was surprised his knees didn't buckle, at this point, though he could hardly stand completely upright. As he had when facing the door, he grabbed hold of the only thing he could: in this case, Hellstrom. Or more accurately, handfuls of his tousled, greasy hair.

“ _Not..._ ” Hans swallowed, hoping the brief pause was enough to rid the desperation from his tone. “Not here.” 

Hellstrom's reaction was delayed, and he only stopped, stood, once Hans's hands fell away from his hair. He was just as cross as he'd been most of the night—had he not expended all that hostility moments ago? 

“ _That's_ a first,” he said derisively, reaching to stroke Hans. “You're always begging for me to take you wherever I can.”

His hand moved at a relaxed pace. There was no intent to satisfy Hans, just to tease—more retribution for all of Hans's earlier remarks.

Unwilling to show any signs of surrender, Hans smiled, breathless. “Maybe you're content with the first flat surface you find, Dieter, but I prefer a little comfort.”

Hans canted his head in the direction of the living room. All it took was the split-second when Hellstrom drew his eyes away, following. Hans shoved him, square in the chest, sending him stumbling back.

“The couch. _Now._ ”

Thankfully it wasn't too far a distance, but for Hellstrom, it might as well have been traveling back to Germany. Not seeming to trust Hans could make the journey on his own, he grabbed Hans by the jacket and, in the space of a few heartbeats, all but dragged him to the plush couch and veritably threw him down onto it.

Hans smiled up at him, making as if to stand. “Or perhaps, on second thought, my bedroom—”

Hellstrom cut Hans off with a violent kiss, pushing him back to the couch. It wasn't meant to be affectionate; it was meant to stun Hans into silence. And it worked, also succeeding in rubbing at the sore spot on his lip; a hint of tacky blood was present through all the other tastes mixing together.

Before Hans could compose himself, Hellstrom lowered to his knees. With no gentleness and even less hesitation, he tugged Hans's trousers down to his shins, allowing for better access. Hans meant to station a hand on the back of Hellstrom's head, providing him the direction he seemed to need quite frequently, but Hellstrom already had his face buried between Hans's legs. He shamelessly took Hans in his mouth in full, impossibly warm and wet and _starved_.

Hellstrom was quite the contradiction at times, his fury at Hans making any remarks about his private life, yet his eagerness to please Hans orally. Hans, though, suspected it had to do with the action of sifting his fingers through Hellstrom's hair that encouraged his _sturmbannführer_ , more than anything, to perform so exceptionally.

And so, Hans kept it up, a constant combing of Hellstrom's mussed hair as he dutifully worked his mouth, his tongue. The occasional raspy breath would tumble out when Hans would rock up to match Hellstrom's motion, and it took everything within Hans to hold back, not finish within the first minute; he quite enjoyed the view, more than any film he had threatened to go see with Zoller.

He was fond, too, of Hellstrom's focus and thoroughness when it came to oral sex as if there were a strategy to it all. It was mesmerizing, in a way, this fastidiousness that all _soldaten_ should possess, but few truly did. Yet Hans could hardly believe, based on how intensely they fucked, that Hellstrom didn't also harbor a similar sort of avidity for being permitted to do this to _Hans_ , in particular—that it was not strictly about the control and dominance that Hellstrom claimed it was.

Hans sighed, sinking further down into the couch, guiding Hellstrom along with him and massaging his fingers through that slippery hair in tight circles. The soft, steady suction being applied and the hums of the moans crammed back by his cock down Hellstrom's throat were intoxicating. He didn't want it to end, but his body was hardly complicit to his wish, and tension pooled, compressed... building and funneling out through involuntary hitches in his breath...

When Hans came, it was without any warning, verbal or otherwise, save for one powerful thrust into Hellstrom's mouth that caused him to cough quietly. But with Hans's hand still fisting his hair, he didn't pull away until Hans finished riding out the wave of the orgasm.   
  
Hans tapped Hellstrom behind the ear, indicating he was finished. Pushing up from his knees, Hellstrom stood, towering over Hans with a rather impassive expression, considering how diligent and enthusiastic he'd just been.

“Ah, and here I thought you weren't interested in a promotion any time soon. Based on that,” Hans gestured to his lap, where his cock lay flaccid and gleaming with copious amounts of saliva. “I might beg to differ.”

Hellstrom remained motionless, silent as if Hans hadn't spoken at all.

“ _Well_?” 

Hellstrom's dagger glare didn't leave Hans as he forcibly cleared his throat and spit. Everything Hans had just unloaded into his mouth spattered upon impact with the cushion. Hans jerked his gaze down to find a constellation of sticky globules, large and small, marring what he'd always thought was an attractive couch.

As attuned to Hellstrom's brashness as he was, the absolute gall of it shocked Hans. His mouth fell open and all he could do was gawk, making a sound not unlike a chicken being stepped on.

“ _Really_ , was that necessary?!” Hans bolted up from the couch, hiking his trousers back up.

“Nothing tonight was necessary.” Hellstrom dragged the back of his hand across his lips, shook it off. “But we both got what we wanted, which is fine with me.”

As if this were some mutual transaction they'd just completed; in a sense, it was, both of them offering something the other was willing to take. Still, the audacity of Hellstrom to suggest this was something schemed up solely by him from the night's onset—Hans might have laughed if he wasn't so disposed to keep up this little charade of Hellstrom's.

“In that case, since we're finished... sharing anything for the evening, I'm going to wash up and go to bed.” Hellstrom had been over here before, in past years; he knew Hans's room was on the second floor of this townhome. “And you... well, you—what is the expression the Americans use? You made your bed. So you can lie in it.”

Hellstrom looked to the dirtied couch, then back at Hans, eyes alight with fury. From the way his jaw tightened, almost as if it was wired so, Hans knew that he was fully aware of having fallen victim to his proclamations that this arrangement proceed in the most practical way possible.

“Well, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow morning, then.” Hans gave him a rough swat on the shoulder, far more than if he were only being friendly. “Have a good night's sleep, Dieter.” Then, dipping his head closer to Hellstrom's ear, he added, “I dare say you've earned it.”

Hellstrom pulled away, already removing the coat of his uniform like he couldn't wait to be rid of anything Hans had touched. “So no... what'd you tell the Reichsminister, speaking to me about my 'social decorum'?”

“Oh... well, about that...” From where Hans was standing, he didn't have a proper view of the right side of Hellstrom's neck, but he could guess, based on the fervor of the kisses in the foyer, that the damage had been done. It was absolute torture to suppress a knowing smile, or to keep any trace of victory from his voice. “I think it's something better dealt with in the morning. When we're well-rested, and not... preoccupied with other matters.”

Hellstrom nodded, laying his jacket, then his tie, across the back of the couch. His lips parted—another retort at the ready?—then pressed flat, as if he'd thought better of it. Hans raised his eyebrows, a wordless signal that Hellstrom could come right out and say whatever was on the tip of his tongue if he chose; really, it was unlike him to do otherwise.

But he didn't, instead turning his back to Hans as he began to unbutton his brownshirt.

Hans made sure his “Hm!” of a laugh was loud enough for Hellstrom to hear, before he, too, turned and departed for the stairs.

* * *

Hans returned from the washroom to find his bed, like the rest of Paris, occupied.

Hellstrom, stripped down to his undergarments and socks, was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with a cigarette pinched between his lips.

“Oh, _Guten Abend_ , Sturmbannführer.” Hans tilted his head, toweling off his damp hair. “Might I help you with something?”

Hellstrom exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes not moving from the ceiling. “I'm not sleeping on your fucking couch, Hans.”

Hans lowered himself onto the bed, a smile curving up as he considered what Hellstrom might really mean—and how it might be used to taunt him. “You know, it's been… some time since we began this... arrangement of ours. It's not as if one of us desiring a—ah, shall we say, a deeper sense of intimacy is unprecedented.”

His statement was met with side-eyed consternation—the same look Hellstrom might issue if Hans felt the need to slip an innuendo or two in while they were among the public.

Skillfully, as if avoiding a snare of some sort, Hans stole the cigarette from Hellstrom and took a drag himself. _Hm_ , he was always telling his _sturmbannführer_ to try a different brand, but in this case, the familiarity of it brought upon him a vague sense of calm.

As stimulating as it was to wind Hellstrom up, they had an early morning awaiting them, and Hans—well, he wasn't as young as he once was. Getting fucked senseless only compounded his exhaustion. After another drag on the cigarette, he passed it back to Hellstrom, who still appeared unhappy about what Hans had said.

“'One of us',” Hellstrom repeated quietly, not hiding his contempt. “You can't _possibly_ mean me.”

“Well, I certainly don't mean myself,” Hans said, stretching out on the bed alongside Hellstrom. He offered the covers; he had his pajamas, whereas Hellstrom didn't. He'd better not hear another word of complaint that he was inconsiderate.

“If it was _intimacy_ I was after—” Hellstrom sneered the word like it was synonymous with 'Allied Forces, “—or that I thought you were after, you'd have been tossed aside a long time ago.” 

“Likewise,” Hans agreed, although it wasn't as straightforward as all that. It went unsaid that their mutual understanding to not expose themselves emotionally to each other had, over the years, resulted in exactly that, however incidentally. But he appreciated Hellstrom's disinterest in the subject, and, save for the couple times that the circumstances had been extenuating, reciprocated in kind.

They laid in silence, and then the dark as well, as Hans switched out the light. The only sound was Hellstrom's intermittent inhaling and exhaling as he finished his cigarette. 

Hans punched the pillow under his head, trying to get comfortable; he was not used to staying the night with someone, much less them staying the night with him. But for as much as he prized having both the freedom and privacy that came with sleeping by his lonesome, he could think of much worse things than having a recalcitrant _sturmbannführer_ taking up space in his bed.

“You ought to wash up,” he told Hellstrom once he was down to what looked like his final puff. “You smell like sex.” And the Ernte smoke and the Muelhens cologne Hans had come to associate with him, grown accustomed to. Something was lulling about it, even though it was hardly what he might normally consider appealing. 

“I can't imagine why.” Hellstrom sat up slightly to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table beside him. He must be tired; he hadn't even feigned as if he might put it out on Hans's hand, which had crept closer, cradled against Hellstrom's side, pinky and ring finger grazing the thin material of his undershirt. “I'll do it in the morning, just wake me up on time.”

Hellstrom was much more demonstrative with getting himself situated in bed than Hans had been, thrashing around in what limited space he had until he settled on a position that had him facing away from Hans. His left leg was at an angle that resulted in his foot overlapping with one of Hans's, and somehow after all the other limbs and body parts they'd had on and in each other, this was the most unacceptable. Grumbling under his breath about it, Hellstrom made no effort to remedy the situation and burrowed further under the covers Hans had relinquished to him.

The temptation was too strong; Hans inched closer and, almost as snugly as Hellstrom had done when they were against the door, looped an arm about his waist.

“ _Don't_.” Instantly, Hellstrom threw Hans's hand away, followed by striking Hans's foot with his heel. It was somewhat disappointing, as Hans had hoped for a much more barbed comment, but it was more gratifying than not, getting the last shot in, in their night-long repartee.

“Then I suppose I'll just wait until you're asleep.”

Hellstrom kicked at him again, and Hans turned to face the other way, a satisfied smile drawn on his lips as he tugged his pillow down and circled one arm up around it.

Hans had almost drifted off himself when he felt the bed shifting, and then something even more inexplicable: the barest weight settling just above his hip, and the brush of Hellstrom's fingers at his waist as his wrist drooped—some sort of bastardization of a lover's hold.

Hans didn't dare open his eyes and tease Hellstrom, who was now still, _too still_ , likely meaning to convince Hans that he'd fallen asleep already. Oh, he certainly _could_ ruin the moment by plucking Hellstrom's hand off him, by kicking him in the same way he'd just been.

But he could also, he decided, leave any form of payback until morning.


	4. On the Contrary

A spot of warmth on his cheek slowly drew Dieter awake. Even before opening his eyes completely, he knew it was Landa’s hand, gloved as usual. Landa must have let him sleep while getting ready instead of waking him up as instructed—the first sign that the new day was going to be infuriating. Before he could reach up to bat the hand away, Dieter received a hard pinch—a patronizing wake-up call that sent him jolting up and instinctually grabbing at the dull pain. 

“Rise and shine, _Wunderschönen_!” Landa taunted, dodging then catching the fist thrown at him. “We don’t want to be late to our next meeting with Doktor Goebbels and Schütze Zoller, now.” 

_Scheisse_. How had he forgotten their security assignment already? 

He stood up hurriedly, tearing his hand from Landa’s grip and heading back downstairs. His uniform was right where he left it but due to the dark, he hadn’t previously been able to see how wrinkled it'd become. Or smelled it for matter, the scent of lust and sweat still clinging strongly to the tunic and trousers he held as he entered the ground floor washroom. Oh well. He’d have time to clean them after their rendezvous. 

He had no issue cleaning off enough to make himself presentable, helped considerably by the fact that Landa wasn't on the other side of the door, chattering about something inane for the sole purpose of driving him to distraction. But it wasn't the time constraint that had Dieter so frustrated—he was used to this, getting ready efficiently, despite limited minutes and supplies. No, it was the principle of it. So he gave Landa the simple request of waking him with enough time so he didn't have to scramble, and Landa defied it, for his own amusement? Meanwhile, the moment Landa voiced his need to be fucked, Dieter was supposed to just... what, obey? 

One of these days, he'd tell Landa “no”—if one of these days he wasn't so _gottverdammt_ angry with all this subterfuge Landa couldn't exist without constantly employing, that the solution to channeling that burning anger came in the form of fucking Landa's brains out.

He briskly ran the first comb he found through his hair; he'd have to make do with water coating the days-old pomade, and knew he had more himself than Landa to blame for his ruined hair, although he decided to blame Landa anyway. But this was hardly the most aggravating discovery Dieter made while looking in the mirror. 

After adorning his brownshirt, he started to knot his tie—and noticed three distinct bruises on his neck. _Knutschflecken_ from the night prior. 

“Hans, get your ass in here! _Now_!” The day was hardly a half-hour old, and already he'd lost his patience. 

The door creaked open, just a crack, and Landa's face appeared from behind it. “Do my ears deceive me, or is that the sound of a _Sturmbannführer_ ordering around his superior?” 

Dieter ignored his remark in favor of an infuriated glare. “What the fuck is this?” A single finger pointed at the bruises, the rage in his voice barely contained as his fury only grew. He almost slammed the door in Landa's face when he was met with a proud, wicked smile. 

“You’ve had them before, Dieter; you know what those are.”

Landa continued when met with bitter silence and another glare. “Ah, well.” He leaned against the door's frame, thoughtfully. “Remember, I told you we would discuss your punishment for your behavior at the hotel yesterday?” He laughed, stepping back as Dieter exited the washroom, now in uniform.

One swift, aggressive push from Dieter, and Landa fell backward, stumbling over the arm of the couch behind him. He was grinning when he landed—not the reaction Dieter wanted. 

“Now, now, Dieter; you’ll have to wait until tonight, we don’t have time for… _that_ right now,” Landa chided, tapping the golden watch on his wrist as he rose. “Well. Maybe _you_ do.”

Dieter rolled his eyes as Landa sidled up next to him. “We should get going,” he said curtly. “And by the way...” he paused deliberately, enough that Landa's playful smile flattened out into a more curious look. “I never did clean the couch.”

* * *

They arrived at the hotel early—or, on time, and it was Goebbels and Zoller who were running behind, technically speaking. As Reichsminister, it was understood that some things took precedence over breakfast, and presumably it was the same for Zoller, since his schedule ran all but parallel to Goebbels's.

Dieter, for one, was glad. It gave him a small pocket of time to collect himself—Landa didn't act as outrageous as he might have, had they an audience, and it was... almost nice, if such a term could be fitting when it came to Landa, to talk about what the past several months had entailed for them, professionally. Both of them seemed to have been assigned to security roles in varying capacities, although Landa's kept him predominantly in France while Dieter had been shuttled all over Germany for weeks at a time, and only been called back to France once the premier of _Stolz der Nation_ was confirmed.

Their table was stationed in a corner, allowing for some semblance of privacy, and Dieter had made it a point to sit to Landa's left—so no one else might spy last night's residuals on his neck. But every time someone neared their table, Dieter would tense up—slightly, but enough that he knew Landa was aware... and amused.

Landa had been correct in saying this was something that Dieter had dealt with before, but what he _hadn't_ dealt with before was an arrogant and nosy _Schütze_. Yes, of course, he'd seen numerous other _Soldaten_ over the years with marks larger and darker than his, more visible too. But Zoller had proven himself to be impertinent, and it wouldn't be out of the question for him to pry, as if he were old school friends with Dieter and Landa. And he could already imagine Landa's cover story, that Dieter had paid up for a little _Straßenmädchen_ to accompany him for the night, in which case Zoller's ears might just burn off his over-inflated head.

But when Zoller showed up, he opted to sit beside Landa, who ordered the boy a coffee and selection of pastries. He seemed content to ignore Dieter just as much Dieter wished to ignore him, not saying a word other than the requisite greeting.

“No Reichsminister today, _Schütze_?” Landa asked, buttering a piece of toast. “I'm surprised; I didn't think our _Kleinerheld_ went anywhere without his dear friend Joseph.”

Dieter helped himself to toast as well, biting his tongue. If _he'd_ said anything along those lines, surely Zoller would've tattled to Goebbels about how cruel and disrespectful he was. But of course, Landa saying it meant it was only to be interpreted with the utmost affection. Unbelievable.

“He's here,” Zoller replied, solely to Landa. “He's speaking with Ministerialdirektor Fritzsche—he just arrived in Paris yesterday, and is supposed to help with the broadcast of one of our conferences later this week.”

“Ah, yes, ol' Fritzy!” Landa grinned. “I'll have to make sure to say 'hi' to the man, myself. Why, the first time I heard him mention me during one of his programs, that's when I _knew_ for certain I'd brought honor to the Reich.”

Dieter had no clue what Landa was talking about—if this had happened, surely, Landa would have graced him with the anecdote by now. On the other hand, and equally likely, Landa was _voller Scheiß._

“It's amazing how many people Joseph knows,” Zoller said. “Between him and yourself, Standartenführer, you must know every important figure to come from our glorious nation.”

“And then some,” Landa confirmed with a wink to Zoller. Beneath the table, hidden from view, he clipped his hand against the side of Dieter's leg, inferring just who that _some—_ who were not “important figures"—might be.

If this was Landa's warped way of boosting his confidence, he didn't need it. But, for whatever reason, it did somewhat tamp down the burgeoning frustration Dieter had been experiencing since he'd awakened that morning. There was a term for what Landa had just done, stifling his incessant remarks and keeping gestures meant to be private as just that—but it hovered just out of Dieter's mental grasp.

Zoller remained irritating due to the sheer fact of his existence, but at least he and Landa spoke about topics irrelevant to their personal lives. They were happy to discuss the day's schedule, with Zoller making an appearance at a plaza near the Seine. Both he and Goebbels would be conducting an interview with the press regarding _Stolz der Nation_ , and meeting with various stationed _soldaten_. Boost their morale, not that it should be waning in the first place. 

The two carried on their frivolous conversation, and Dieter remained in the background with his thoughts and the _Kaffeeersatz_ he'd become acclimated to while in France.

Landa was positively enraptured by this subject, peppering Zoller with “practice” questions, as if he were out amongst the attending _Soldaten_. As bothersome as Zoller was, even Dieter had to admit to him being well-spoken—that is, when his speaking wasn't out of turn.

But then, it became quite clear that, among Zoller's many... _qualities,_ was his ability to be out of turn, even if _not_ speaking.

At first, Dieter had thought he'd imagined it. But after a second, third occurrence, it was unmistakable: as Zoller chatted with Landa, his focus would falter. The eye contact he should have maintained when both addressing, and being addressed by, a senior officer, would, for the barest of moments, fall to Landa's mouth, to the souvenir Dieter had given him.

There was no way that Landa couldn't have noticed it, but he and Zoller continued their dialogue, asking and answering, for several minutes.

“Any projects in the works? I imagine it'll be tough to top _Stolz der Nation_ , but I'm eager to follow your career's ascension.”

“Nothing yet written in stone, but whatever the Reichsminister selects is certain to bring out the best in me as an aspiring actor,” Zoller replied, with that broad idiotic smile of his—and another darting inspection of Landa's mouth.

Dieter could see it, the subtle change in Landa's eyes; the friendliness was still there, but something malicious—and devastatingly attractive, to Dieter—twinkled behind it.

“Let's see—ah, this is quite fun, playing the adoring fan! Hm... _oh_!” Landa snapped as if it'd just come to him. “For my next question, Fredrick, I'd like to know... Is there something you wish to ask me?”

Zoller blinked. “ _Verzeihung?_ ”

“No, no, my boy,” Landa scolded kindly. “You must be quicker than that. Field those reporters and soldiers, take their questions down with the same precision you did the Allies."

Zoller's left hand was set upon his coffee cup. Now, it trembled, causing the cup to clink against the saucer, and he used his right hand to steady it. _“Ich bitte dich um Verzeihung,_ Standartenführer _._ ”

“He doesn't need your apology.” Dieter lit a cigarette, more focused on it than Zoller. “He needs your answer.”

“Now, Sturmbannführer, don't be harsh with the boy— _again_.” Landa tapped at Dieter playfully with the back of his hand. “But, Fredrick, he is correct, however tactless he might be about it. You _do_ look like you wish to ask me something, and it's only fair! So go ahead; asking the right questions is just as important, if not more so, than giving the right answers.”

“Are… are you sure, Standartenführer?”

“I would not have suggested it, were I not sure,” Landa said, a tinge of menace to it. He was so much more patient than Dieter would have been; by this point, Zoller would have had coffee spilled into his lap.

Zoller nodded. “I understand. Anything at all...?”

“Absolutely! We're all friends here.”

Dieter laughed through his nose, earning a fleeting glare from Zoller before the _Schütze_ turned his attention back to Landa.

Zoller worried a finger over his lip, looking at Landa and specifically, _his_ lip. It was all too apparent he did not comprehend that this was not an invitation; it was a test. Just because Landa had _said_ Zoller could ask any question he wished did not mean that he _should_ , and maybe Dieter was “tactless” and “harsh”, as Landa had put it, but better that than a complete _Schwachkopf_ like Zoller.

“Well... out of nothing but the deepest concern, mind you, I was curious as to... well, that is...”

As much as Dieter trusted Landa to fabricate a believable story as to his injury, it was infinitely more rewarding to give Zoller his comeuppance.

“Actually, Schütze, _I_ have a question for you” Dieter interjected, stressing Zoller's rank, though not with the same venom from yesterday. He didn't wait for Zoller to accept. “Might I ask what you've found to do in your downtime?”

Here Zoller had been so intent on wording his question to Landa, the interruption threw him off guard. His smile was flimsy, and he shrunk back into his chair, like a cowed mutt. He glimpsed over at Landa as though the _standartenführer_ were a lifeline, who might rescue him from Dieter's eminent wrath.

Landa, in turn, exchanged a meaningful glance with Dieter, one that made Dieter very glad he was in the middle of a cigarette, to help curb the all-too-familiar rush it sent through him.

Dieter mimicked Landa's approach, his tone one of good nature towards Zoller. “I'm only asking in place of an enamored _Soldat—_ one who wonders how one of the greatest war heroes our nation has ever seen manages to keep his wits about him with such a busy schedule. Although, I'm sure the _Standartenführer_ here—” he motioned to Landa “—is equally as curious as any everyday _Soldat._ ”

Putting Landa on the same level as a common Wehrmacht enlistee, even in a roundabout sense, could be easily taken as insubordination. But who was going to point this out? The ever-daring Fredrick Zoller? Dieter sincerely doubted it.

“Yes, Fredrick, I would absolutely love to know what you've taken in while in Paris. The sights, the sounds...!” His eyes slid, ever-so-briefly, to Dieter, silently confirming they were thinking of finishing the phrase the same way. _Die Schlampen._

Zoller, too, picked up on the undertones—and that the conversation was dipping into territory Goebbels would never have permitted it to, at least were Francesca around. As it was, they were simply three men, discussing what all men were prone to discussing when given the chance.

“I haven't been here long enough, I'm afraid, I...” he trailed off, cheeks turning the same color as the jam on his untouched slice of toast.

“Is something wrong, Schütze?“ Dieter asked. Zoller could only stammer, and Dieter added, “Or do you not like answering personal questions?“

“It's not that at all, I just—”

“Because you seem awfully keen to want to _ask_ them.” The sharp edge had returned to Dieter's voice, and he was ready to run Zoller through with it.

“It's only..." Zoller swallowed, surely attempting to calm himself. “When we were all dining together last night, and the Reichsminister was here, and—”

“Alas, the Reichsminister is not currently here.” This time it was Landa who cut Zoller off.

“Of course, Standartenführer. Well, the truth is... In the little free time I've had, I...” he drew in a deep breath, looking between the other two. “I've gone to the movies. Starring in my own has left me unable to view any, recently. Have you ever heard of a cinema here called Le Gamaar? It's small, rather old, I think, at least compared to a lot of the other cinemas in Paris.”

“I can't say I have—then again I don't get to enjoy the movies as often as I once did, either.” Landa consulted Dieter, “What about you, Sturmbannführer? Have you heard of this Le Gamaar?”

“ _Nein_ ,” Dieter said tersely.

Zoller waited a beat, then prattled on. “Well, I went there last night, it was their weekly German movie night, of course. A von Hammersmark double feature—including _Herr_ _Doktor_ , which is one of the last movies we screened at my family's cinema, before I enlisted. It's special to me in that sense.”

“Ah, what do you know, Fredrick; it's quite a special film to me as well! I'll have to regale you sometime about attending the premiere, where I was privileged to briefly meet the leading lady.”

Dieter hoped that “sometime” wasn't now. He'd heard this tale so many times, and knew exactly how it ended—for both Landa _and_ von Hammersmark. It made him ill.

Put at ease by this, Zoller's nervous smile relaxed. “There was a girl working there, taking tickets. Or not a girl, I suppose, but...” He paused, looking down into his coffee as if it might finish his sentence for him. “She's really the most gorgeous creature, belongs up on screen just as much as any von Hammersmark. She was...” Shaking his head, as though coming out of some deep thought, Zoller took another sip of coffee.

“I understand, my dear boy.” Landa patted Zoller on the arm. “You never know when the stars will align, and I dare say yours might have, last night. She must be a real prize, to catch the eye of someone as acclaimed of yourself.”

It was a true test of control, for Dieter to not interrupt and suggest that, perhaps, it all boiled down to Zoller, the _Vaterland_ 's alleged young, virtuous savior, wanting to stick his cock in the first French _hure_ that might—or might not—have him.

Instead, he finished off his coffee, thinking what he wouldn't give to hear about Zoller's six sisters again, as opposed to this dreck. Then again, he _had_ been the one to ask, so it only served him right to suffer for not preparing for the puerile answer they'd just been given.

The pendulum had swung back in Zoller's favor, now that he and Landa were discussing movies—and von Hammersmark. Almost as if he'd never affronted Landa in the first place, that it was all some fever-induced dream. At any rate, Zoller had either forgotten or disregarded the notion to ask about Landa's mouth, and Dieter was left with satisfaction that served as an adequate replacement for the caffeine notably deficient from the _Kaffeeersatz_.

A server appeared, offering to refill everyone's cups. Landa declined, only halfway through his first, but Dieter and Zoller accepted.

While Zoller was distracted fixing up his coffee, Landa leaned ever-slightly towards Dieter. Beneath the table, their knees brushed.

“Always finishing ahead of me, aren't you?”

A giggle—something too feminine even for Zoller—could be heard nearby. It was Francesca, in one of her garish outfits, at the side of the Reichsminister. Her ugly dogs were nowhere to be found. 

“Many apologies, gentlemen,” Goebbels said. “Hopefully I haven't kept you waiting too long.”

“Waiting?” Landa dismissed the Reichsminister's apology. “Hardly! Young Zoller here has kept us more than entertained. Care to join us?”

“ _Nein_ , I'm about to go dine with Ministerialdirektor Fritzsche _;_ we've hardly gotten started, talking about our plans for next week's program." Goebbels didn't sound as if this was a bad thing. “And he has plenty more to say—to _you_ , Fredrick.”

“Oh?” Zoller was amid picking apart a flaky pastry, and froze, smiling like he'd just been told he was going back to that Le Gamaar _Höllenloch._

“I told him he could meet you next week, but he insisted—you've quite the appeal!” To Landa and Dieter, he added, “I'm not putting you out, I hope. I realize we were supposed to go over the itinerary for today.”

“Don't worry about us,” Dieter said, maybe a touch too sardonically, since Goebbels reacted with an uncertain squint. Under the table, Landa's boot knocked against his.

“He means that in earnest, Joseph; seriously, don't worry about us,” Landa assured Goebbels. “Zoller and myself have already gone through today's schedule—you've taught him well.”

“Excellent, then we shall reconvene here at one, to set off. But first, gentlemen, would you mind watching over my _Filmstar_? Some of the things we'll discuss might not be fit for her delicate little ears.” He reached a thin finger up to stroke Francesca's earlobe, which was weighed down by a gaudy earring. She giggled and batted his hand away.

“We would love nothing more, Reichsminister,” said Landa.

If Goebbels knew the phrases that had fallen from Landa's mouth last night, he wouldn't even let Francesca in the same room as him, let alone eat at the same table. Dieter let his thoughts drift to that for a few seconds, to scrub away the revolting display he'd just witnessed between Goebbels and Francesca.

Goebbels lowered his voice, tone conspiring. “She hasn't eaten yet, either—and you know how women can get if they aren't tended to, and we can't have that!”

Landa laughed politely, and Dieter, who had no fucking clue what Goebbels was talking about, followed Landa's lead with a tight smile of his own.

Goebbels ushered Zoller away. Francesca took a seat next to where Zoller had been, creating, between the three of them, a narrow triangle to which she was the top point.

Besides interpreting and spreading her legs for Goebbels, Francesca was also one of his favorite actresses. Dieter had liked the few movies of hers he'd seen, though it hardly had anything to do with Francesca being in them. Still, despite being painted up and dressing like a tramp, she seemed to know her place around high command, which put her in better standing than Zoller.

Francesca didn't stay long; enough to help herself to savory croissant and a mimosa. It was barely ten hundred hours, but Dieter wasn't about to judge her for drinking this early, especially considering how his morning had gone thus far.

The minutes that did pass were consumed with casual conversation between Francesca and Landa, mostly on the topic of Francesca's own blossoming career. It astounded Dieter, even now, how Landa could just... _find_ things to talk about, conjure interesting subjects out of thin air, or even boring subjects that he deftly twisted into something that _was_ interesting. Then again, Landa had always owned the ability—or, the _charm_ , he himself would call it—that made people _want_ to talk to him, and vice versa. Dieter was probably the only person who, more often than not, wanted him to shut up.

But that'd been taken care of last night, and save for a few choice moments, Landa had been relatively subdued towards Dieter this morning—compared to his usual manner, at least. And after dealing with Zoller so much in the past twelve hours, Dieter was willing to take Landa's sly ambiguity and wordplay over the _schütze_ 's naïveté anyday.

But it did leave him to wonder when Landa would strike next; he _always_ had to wonder this, and never drop his guard.

Francesca finished off her croissant and daintily sipped at her beverage. Her lips quirked around the rim of the glass as she caught Dieter's eye.

He frowned. Why was she looking at him like that—what gave her any _right_ to?

“I should go make sure Doctor Goebbels and our darling hero aren't getting themselves into trouble,” she told Landa as she stood, smoothing at her skirt and the scarf knotted around her neck. “But I thank you for the company, gentlemen.”

 _“Mademoiselle_ Mondino _—Francesca_." Landa motioned for her to sit back down—at Zoller's former seat, next to him. “ _U_ _n moment, s'il vou plaît_?”

Dieter knew where this was going. This was the _next_ ; a new day, a new game for Landa to play in hopes of asserting his dominance in their dynamic. What other reason would Landa have to veil his words, if it wasn't to privately flirt with someone else right out in the open? Well, granted, there was _one_ other reason...

Though mildly confused, Francesca obeyed, seated primly beside Landa.

Landa proceeded to inquire Francesca about—well, Dieter wasn't sure, which surely was the point. He knew basic French, enough to read signs or menus, or at least parse out the context, but verbally? He was lost, save for the most elementary of terms.

Even so, it didn't take being fluent or even conversational in a language to pick up what Landa was asking Francesca. His tone, the way his smile seemed to hone in on only her, spoke volumes. But Dieter was able to translate a couple words from Landa's lengthy monologue: “ _dîner avec moi_ ”—dinner with me.

And “ _un plaisir_ ”—a pleasure. If it was anything like the phrases Landa used on German women, he was telling Francesca that it would be a pleasure to get to know her better, with heavy emphasis on _pleasure_.

Once he'd finished his pitch, Francesca pursed her bright red lips. “ _Colonel Landa..._ ” she started.

“'Hans', _ma cherie_ ,” Landa corrected her, spreading marmalade on a piece of rye bread.

Dieter was seconds from gagging up the toast he'd eaten.

“ _Hans_ ,"she repeated, leaning in closer to him, made-up eyes lowered in what Dieter supposed was a flirtatious manner. _"J'ai peur que tu ne pourras pas me donner du plaisir._ ”

The knife slipped from Landa’s hand, clattering onto the plate. Dieter had never seen him this struck, even amidst their own tiffs.

What in the hell had she just said? Something referring to the “pleasure” Landa has promised, but...? Women didn't leave Standartenführer Hans Landa speechless; it was always the other way around. In fact, _no one_ ever left him speechless except Dieter, and even that was a rare occurrence and typically took more than a mere remark.

“And besides,” Francesca switched back to German, catching Dieter's attention. She was looking between the two of them now, not just Landa. In a low murmur, she added, “I don't think Sturmbannführer Hellstrom would like that very much.”

Francesca tilted her head ever-so-slightly, hooking a finger into her scarf. She added another flutter of her lashes, letting her gaze slip to Dieter's neck.

Shock and fear hit him like a bolt of lightning. _How did she know? Was it that obvious?_ Dieter tried to remain calm, but could feel the heat rushing to his face when he responded in a growl, “You don’t know the first thing about what I’d like, _Fräulein._ ” 

Francesca simply smiled knowingly back at him.

“If you say so, Sturmbannführer.”

* * *

When Landa and Dieter left the hotel shortly thereafter, the late morning breeze was crisp, perfumed with a floral scent from trees lining the property. It created an air of tranquility, promising a laid-back day ahead—completely at odds with how troubled Dieter felt.

His response to Francesca had been so _fucking_ stupid. He'd said it in haste, meaning to suggest she was nothing but a _dumme Sau_ , but he'd only implicated himself further. All he could think was that, any minute now, Goebbels would come storming out demanding Dieter (not Landa— _never_ Landa) verify if there was any credibility to Francesca's observation.

He wanted nothing more than to get back to his hotel, which was a fifteen minute walk away, and spend the next two hours erasing the incident from his mind through a combination of alcohol and sleep. But Landa, who could read Dieter like an open book, gestured for him to follow him to a secluded courtyard that surrounded the hotel's west entrance.

Presumably, this was where guests brought any children or pets who needed to bask in the sunshine or retreat for some fresh air. A large decorative fountain was at the center, a nondescript stone cherub pouring water from a vase.

“Here,” came Landa's voice from in front of Dieter, before he turned, offering his cigarette case.

“I just had one.”

“Then have another.” Landa smiled. “You need it.”

Landa was right. Before Dieter had gotten the cigarette to his lips, Landa's lighter was out. The flame flickered, catching Dieter's cigarette first, then Landa's.

Dieter dropped to sit on the wide rim of the fountain and exhaled, punctuated by a heavy “ _Scheiß_.” He'd meant to utter the expletive under his breath, but in the privacy of the courtyard, it rang loud and clear.

Patiently, methodically, Landa took his first drag, seeming to look to the flag of smoke as to where to take the conversation next. He remained standing in front of Dieter, with only the space of a hand between their boots.

It felt awkward, _submissive_ , to be looking up at him like this, but Dieter knew that's what Landa wanted—thrived on, even. “Would you like to...?” He motioned to the spot beside him.

“I'll stand, _danke_ ,” Landa said, as though it were a foolish question, something a child might ask.

Dieter averted his eyes from Landa, tried to study the pebbled path beneath his boots instead, as he took another puff of the cigarette. These were better than the ones he regularly smoked, had a hint of clove to them. It was odd, that he equated their taste to how Landa normally smelled.

At last, as if he'd decided for himself, Landa took a seat beside Dieter—on the other side of where Dieter had initially indicated.

“You worry too much, Dieter. _Fräulein_ Mondino won't say anything to Goebbels. And if she did, well—you don't _really_ think he'd believe her, do you? He doesn't pay her to hear her thoughts and opinions.”

This was true. What stock would anything Francesca might say actually hold? And what did she even care, to bother telling Goebbels? Still, Dieter wondered what she'd said to Landa, and maybe, just maybe, he'd compliment her on it—if he could bear to look at her again.

Dieter took another drag on his cigarette, and shrugged, as if to say he hadn't thought that much about it. But already, his nerves were settling. This wasn't the typical effect Landa had on him, but it wasn't unwelcome.

Landa bumped his arm to Dieter's. “And I hope you still don't think I have any interest in Zoller.”

“I never thought that.”

“Really? I don't think last night would have transpired the way it did if that weren't the case.”

Yes it would've. Landa would have found some other way to get under his skin, and given how long it'd been since they'd previously slept together, it wouldn't have taken a whole hell of a lot.

Landa went on. “Zoller thinks he's bold, but he's really just impulsive—doing what his heart tells him, without allowing his mind to have any input. He's been _told_ by so many how great he is—and of course, there's no denying his feats; he's positively unmatched, but... he's very content to let others lead him around. I think it would take a great deal for him to _truly_ take initiative.”

Dieter had gathered all this; it was why Zoller had irked him, beyond his over-familiarity with Landa. Still, hearing Landa put it out in the open—like Dieter wasn't just reading into things too much, and being annoyed for the sake of it—reassured him, if even a little.

“Suffice to say, he bores me. You, _Sturmbannführer,_ never have. On the contrary, you've always...” he paused, and a crafty smile pulled at the edge of his lips, “ _excited_ me.”

Dieter brushed Landa's comment aside easily. “I think it might be that you're easily excitable, Hans.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive!” Landa said with mock-offense. “But seriously, since _Fräulein_ Mondino isn't available to—”

“I'd argue our own _Schwalben_ jets are less proficient at shooting others down.”

“ _As I was saying—_ I haven't company for dinner, now.” Landa's tone changed to something closer to what he'd used with Francesca. “Though I'll settle for yours; rather, after-dinner. A round at La Louisiane, perhaps?”

La Louisiane. Not that Dieter would admit to truly enjoying any establishment in this filthy country, but La Louisiane bordered on tolerable, if only because Landa seemed to approve of it. He'd introduced Dieter to it a few years ago, back when Dieter had been in France for the first time, over _Weihnachtszeit,_ and with very little to be festive or cheerful about.

La Louisiane was a rustic tavern, tucked away in relative obscurity, and Landa said he'd discovered it per a “suggestion” from a “friend”, which could have meant any number of things. Dieter had never tried to read too much into this, nor had he tried to read too much into Landa bringing him there to begin with, because he might have seen it as a _kind_ gesture.

But this was Landa, so, no, it wasn't anything like that. Thoughtful, perhaps—until Dieter realized it'd also been a ploy to get him drunk, exploiting emotions still tender from a predicament he and Landa had found themselves embroiled in a year prior.

The ploy had worked, although Dieter could hardly find it in himself to regret the aftermath—or what he remembered of it, anyway.

As if able to read his mind, Landa remarked, “You _do_ look as though you could use a drink, Sturmbannführer.” Which, Dieter knew, translated to _several_.

“Are you buying?”

It was a rhetorical question. Of course Landa was buying; he always did, at least at La Louisiane.

“So, shall I pick you up at your hotel? Nineteen-hundred, then?”

Dieter glanced back at Landa, something between humored and annoyed at his presumptuousness. “I didn't say 'yes'.”

“You didn't say 'no', either,” Landa said.

How many times had he heard _that_? With a sigh, he took a final pull of his cigarette and flicked into the fountain. “And what's the occasion?” Landa would always rationalize them going to La Louisiane—something other than two officers who simply need a night away, yet doing so together. Dieter assumed it was more for his benefit, since Landa wasn't paranoid about any rumors that might spread about him; in fact, it only seemed to make him more powerful, to know he was being talked about.

“Who said there was any occasion? Like I said, you seem as if you've the need to... unwind. And I, your ever-altruistic superior officer, am offering up my own time and funds to ensure you achieve just that.”

The insinuation in Landa's voice was so thick, Dieter was surprised he didn't choke on it. 

“Fine,” Dieter acquiesced. “Drinks tonight at seven.”

Landa inched closer, tracing a finger along Dieter's back. “And I have a few ideas as to what can happen by ten. We'll just have to see where the night takes us.”

 _Gott_ , could they ever talk without it leading to a proposition? “Shut up, Hans.”

“Oh, I'm certain you'll find a way to make sure I do just that, _mein Sturmbannführer._ ” 

Landa's breath was hot on his ear, and his touch... before Dieter could even register it, something smooth brushed his neck, grazing over the marks Landa had left; the knuckle of Landa's finger—ungloved. It was so sudden, unexpected that he wasn't even able to growl at Landa to knock it off. 

Landa stood, saying something about how his driver would be here any minute—at least, that's what Dieter thought he said; his mind was practically buzzing, like the deep thrumming of a plane engine.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Landa said, after walking ahead a few paces. He turned back to face Dieter with a placid smile. “I meant to inform you, I've arranged to have your uniform cleaned.”

Dieter was still recovering from the fingers at his neck, but was able to keep his voice and expression steady. “Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

“Very soon, actually.”

With that, Landa swiftly closed the gap between them. His flattened hands made solid contact with Dieter's chest, sending him toppling into the fountain with a loud _splash_!

“ _Hans!_ ” It was all he could get out as he pushed himself up, coughing and spluttering. Spitting the dirty fountain water out, Dieter swept his hair from his eyes. He almost slipped as he righted himself and staggered away from the fountain, ready to strangle Landa, who was nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Well, I suppose we'll have to get you out of that uniform—and quickly too!” Landa could barely talk through the laughter, and adroitly dodged out of the way when Dieter swiped at him. “We've only two hours until we reconvene here. Not very long at all... in fact, we should get to your hotel as soon as possible.”

Dieter's entire upper body was soaked through—it would take half the day for his uniform to dry, and even then it would hardly be clean. This was Landa, though—he'd find a solution, and ensure he was thoroughly entertained during the whole process. But just because he didn't doubt Landa didn't mean he wasn't consumed with rage he had every intention of taking out on him once they got to the hotel.

“Let's go.” Dieter captured Landa's arm and shoved him forward. As they exited the courtyard and rounded the corner to the awaiting Mercedes-Benz, Landa gave him an impish smile over his shoulder.

“Really, Sturmbannführer _._ ” Landa made a show of rubbing his arm where Dieter had grabbed it. “Is that all you've got?”

Dieter gave him a caustic smile. He'd get his revenge soon enough, and put Landa where he belonged: face-down in the sheets and pleading for more. But something about the way Landa looked back, eyes sparkling with deviousness, told Dieter that Hans knew as well as he did that coming out on top wasn't nearly as important—or as fun—as the lengths they'd go to, to get there.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, **copernicusjones** here! So **CakeFlavoredFinch** and I kind of made the fatal error of saying "eh, I guess I could crack-ship it" re: Landstrom and here we are, collaborating on this monstrosity. A lot of the ~backstory~ hinted at is definitely stuff we want to continue collab-ing on in the future, too. I personally had a lot of fun doing this, as it was my first true collab (in the sense I'm writing one story with someone else), and it was rewarding helping **CakeFlavoredFinch** with their writing along the way, and see them grow and churn out their art ideas!
> 
> We hope you like this, and appreciate any kudos and feedback. Any German mistakes are my own, but hopefully nothing is too egregious.


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